


if you love me, let me go

by xylomylo



Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - TiMER Fusion, F/F, but also kinda different, umm.. angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylomylo/pseuds/xylomylo
Summary: the air is a soft harmony of their breaths as it syncs with their heartbeats, and if sana had a choice, she would choose to listen to nothing but this for the rest of her life. with momo. because it sings all her insecurities to sleep, and weaves a veil over just the two of them -they stay there like that. she is content. she is happy.
Relationships: Hirai Momo/Minatozaki Sana, Minatozaki Sana/Park Jisoo | Jihyo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 101





	if you love me, let me go

**Author's Note:**

> timer au but not really,?? idk what this is tbh also i developed it from one of the twitter summary fic thing i actually did :>
> 
> title from panic at the disco's THIS IS GOSPELLLLLL

/

  
  
  


the tiles of the kitchen are cold. it’s a belated realisation, because she’s definitely been standing at the island for ten minutes or so, and it does absolutely nothing to make her feel. the icy numbness gets brushed away quickly as something unimportant, and sana sips her piping hot coffee - it tastes like defeat, and doesn’t warm her the slightest. 

maybe she should have listened to momo, to turn the heating up, and stop leaving the windows open. maybe she should have listened to momo, to wear more layers. maybe she should have listened to momo, when the other girl had tried to talk about it. about the numbers. about them. 

she looks down at her wrist. the numbers are still unmoving - they do little to her, now that sana knows. because she was stupid enough to let the sparkle of hope momo put in her burn too brightly, and shine too much light on the soulmate-determining bullshit that she never really believed in (until she’d met momo).

00:00:00

it’s unfair. why should love be reduced to an algorithm? people buy into it like fairytales and happy endings. but it’s nothing more than a bunch of scientists capitalising on destiny. because science is now more powerful than fate -

the electric lock chimes with the keying in of their password, and the front door opens. there are footsteps sana has not heard in a very long time, and her heart quickens with apprehension. she turns around. 

it’s momo, of course. her hair is dark, and longer, and her eyes are the same hazel swirl that makes sana still want to drown in them. to let the tides of her love wash away the emptiness she knows they both feel. but today, there is caution in those very same eyes, and sana thinks a part of her has seen this coming. 

because they can’t run forever.

“sana,” momo steps forward, unflinching. “can we talk?” her voice is steady, and sana feels the bitter spike of jealousy clawing into her veins. her mouth. because how can someone be so calm over throwing away a five-year relationship? but then momo was always the braver one out of the two of them, and the bitterness lingers on her tongue even after she swallows.

sana nods. doesn’t trust her voice. lowers her eyes to the floor. distracts herself with the lines of the tiles, and notices that momo didn’t even bother taking off her boots. her heart drops. it’s a huge slap in the face - enough for sana to gather whatever’s left of her dignity to raise her head, and face this resolutely. 

momo’s hands find hers, over her cup. pulls them away gently, and into the space between them. they are cold, because momo’s always had bad circulation - sana shakes herself out of it. waits for the guillotine to drop:

“let’s break up.” 

it stings. her head rolls. the words are a five-inch incision along her treasured memories, and it feels like her heart has been ripped out. like someone stuck their fist right into her chest, broke all her ribs, one by one, and yanked out her still-beating heart, in all its deep-rooted glory.

the worst part? she can’t say no. because momo isn’t happy. because she no longer makes momo happy. because she still loves momo, no matter what the stupid numbers say -

sana chances a glance at their joined hands. momo’s wrists are facing up, and the numbers are there. different. changed, just like they have.

24:00:00

she takes a deep breath. it’s the confirmation she needs. everything is still the same, other than the fact that they’re no longer at zero, like they were when they’d first met each other in college. like they were supposed to be, forever. because sana is no longer momo’s soulmate, and momo’s steadfast belief in the algorithm overshadows everything else. even sana.

and that only leaves them one thing to do -

“okay,” she says, voice cracking. feels her eyes prickle with tears. “let’s break up.” 

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


sana wakes up to an earthquake. or so she thinks, as she’s unceremoniously jostled out of sleep and greeted with momo’s slightly crazed eyes -

“they’re commercialising it!” the other girl all but yells. “oh my god they’re commercialising it!” her grin is about to split her face, and any possibility of sana going back to sleep is denied by momo jumping on her bed. the old thing creaks, and the worry that she might end up bedless is enough to send her sitting right up and grabbing momo by the legs.

“they what?” she’s still trying to catch up. saturdays are for sleeping in, and she doesn’t really appreciate being awake before the sun starts burning down her bare ass. or just before her stomach manages to digest itself. but momo looks like she’s won the lottery, and sana is lowkey amused.

“the timers!” momo beams. sits down on sana’s lap, and sana is forced to read the too-bright phone shoved in her face. it’s an article that is titled  _ no more unrequited love, with new timers!  _ and she fights the roll of her eyes. 

so they did it. the article mentions something about a breakthrough, after repeated testing of their prototypes, and sana really doesn’t care. but momo’s eyes are alight with unrestrained joy and sana thinks her breath gets stuck somewhere in the back of her throat because momo looks beautiful, with her bed hair and sleep shirt and no pants, and she might just be in l-

sana blinks it away. “oh,” she says. “are you getting one?”

momo nods, not missing a beat. “are you kidding?” she almost screams again, and sana cracks a smile at her child-like enthusiasm. “no more unrequited love, sana. that means no more heartbreaks!” she puts away her phone. “and a twenty-four hour countdown to the moment i meet my soulmate? it’s more than enough time to buy the perfect dress.” 

it’s true. momo has always been a fast shopper, and sana still doesn’t understand, not after an entire year of living with the girl. there are things she’s gotten used to: momo’s complete disregard for clothes when at home, momo’s crazy metabolism, momo’s hatred for wearing shoes indoors - but the one thing sana will never get used to is the other girl’s blind belief in a pre-calculated destiny.

“don’t you think it’s a little too… perfect?” sana questions. it’s still too early in the morning, and her brain is sloshing around for the best way to put across her doubts and not offend momo in any way possible, because she’s respectful of other opinions. and a nice person. and maybe seeing an upset momo is the last thing she wants. 

the other girl folds her arms. scoots a little further down the rest of sana’s thighs, and sana can’t help but miss the body heat. but momo’s eyes are serious and -

“i’m sick of heartbreaks, sana,” she says. “i don’t want to go through the pain of dating and falling in love and then finding out that we weren’t meant to be.” huffs a little more, and grabs the shiba inu plushie that somehow ended up on the bedside table. “i just want to find the one, you know? and stop wasting my time. stop making mistakes. just me and my soulmate, someone i can give my heart to, without the fear of them throwing it away like it’s nothing.” 

momo is defensive. sana thinks she has every right to be. it’s been months, sure, but sana’s once again reminded of all the nights she came back to find the other girl curled up on the floor, crying. it makes her heart hurt again, at how small momo had looked each time; fragile and heartbroken - no one deserves to go through the pain of a breakup. sana doesn’t know the details, but momo had always talked about her high school girlfriend, and judging by how the pictures of the two of them had mysteriously disappeared the next day, sana knows she’s probably right.

so she nods. shifts forward to scoop momo into a hug. because momo is sweet, kind, and deserves nothing but the best. 

“you will, okay?” she murmurs. strokes the top of momo’s head gently, in the way that she’s learnt, because this is the only foolproof method known to calm the other girl. “just because you haven’t doesn’t mean that you won’t.” momo smells like peaches, and sana doesn’t know why her brain picks out this particular strand of information and retains it. “this is the anti-heartbreak we all need!”

momo snorts. sana feels the vibrations on her neck, and cracks a smile. it tingles, and it spreads all the way to her fingertips - the ones holding momo. then the other girl giggles. it’s soft, until it’s not, when momo explodes into a fit of giggles that forces sana to let go. because she, too, starts laughing, big and loud.

it’s nothing new. just another round of inexplicable laughter that squeezes all the air out of sana’s lungs. laughing out of nothing. her shoulders aren’t tense anymore. momo’s eyes disappear into her grin, and sana gives herself a mental pat on the back. 

because this is how things should be. this is how momo should always be - smiling. happy. 

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


she meets jihyo two weeks after she signs the papers. 

it’s a whole cliche. they meet at the cafe right around the corner of the street on the one day sana decides she’s had enough. it’s time for something new. to move on, because momo already did. to be outside. to get some fresh air. to meet new people, for once.

“is this seat taken?” she asks. hopes her eyebags are well hidden by the concealer she actually put on for once, and gives her best smile. introduces herself when jihyo invites her to sit, and is thankful that the other girl reciprocates nicely, and doesn’t show judgement of any sort. not when the cafe is half empty, and when there are plenty of other seats. 

there’s an awkward silence. sana tries to fill it, because she started this, and she knows she has to end this - 

“you don’t have it?” she asks. it’s the first thing she notices, because no one wears long sleeves during summer unless they have something to hide, and jihyo’s wrists are bare. maybe it’s also because it’s the thing keeping her awake for the past two weeks and more, and she’s really tired of dreaming about some stupid numbers moving.

“have what?” jihyo is patronising. but sana doesn’t care. pushes forward with the bravery of someone who has nothing to lose. being deprived of social interaction only makes her even more straightforward, and she no longer sees the importance of a facade.

she points to jihyo’s bare wrists. “a timer.” 

jihyo blinks. brings a finger to trace where the numbers should be, like for ninety percent of the population out there, and shakes her head. “nope. never really saw the need to.” her eyes do not waver, and it is a refreshing sight - something other than the passing judgement that is supposedly the new norm. 

“really?” sana can’t help her own gasp of surprise. “what about the heartbreaks? not finding your soulmate?” she places her hand under her chin and tries to read jihyo. it’s been five years since the timers were commercialised, and since then, literally everyone sana knows has one. most, at least. it’s still optional, of course, societal pressure aside - but the shock that came hand in hand with finally meeting someone who didn’t conform unceremoniously socks sana in the face, and she’s doing everything she can to not make things weird.

jihyo laughs. “surprised?” brings her own cup to her lips, and frowns when she realises it's empty. sana doesn’t miss the way the other girl’s eyes sharpen when she finds them staring at her again, with a bait that she knows she is going to bite -

“buy me another cup of coffee, and i’ll tell you all about it.” 

sana grins. ends up buying two more, and learns that black coffee can taste like purpose. 

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


the research center is an hour’s drive away. 

momo takes the wheel, only because she’s the faster driver and sana would rather get this over and done with so she can go back to doing nothing. or staring at her ceiling. they don’t talk, because she knows momo is still overridden with guilt, and sana doesn’t blame the other girl anymore. beliefs are what define people, and if she were to point fingers, it would be her own fault for falling so helplessly into a mirage. 

the room is cold. they sign in, and are led into separate rooms to do a closure interview. it’s a quick one for her, because it’s momo that is the anomaly; timers aren’t supposed to show more than one countdown. when the first case was reported, the very same scientists scrambled for some sort of reason to explain this outlier, but it was easily swept aside by the increased occurrence of such cases, which could only lead to one possible explanation:

the algorithm is faulty. 

her interviewer gives her a sympathetic smile. she ignores it. picks up the final papers to sign. there are no more tears, but sana still feels the hollow pang in the middle of her chest. at the end of the day, her entire relationship is nothing but another data point. to improve the algorithm, the scientists had said. and momo?

momo believes it. 

there is nothing soft about the reunion, when they meet again in the cold exit room. one of the staff looks at them expectantly, and sana realises she’s still holding onto the papers. she nods. hands them over to momo, and steps back. it is a chilly end to the years of happiness she knows she can never get back.

“thank you,” momo smiles. it’s different. the edges are blunt and hard and her eyes don’t crinkle like they used to. “i’ll see you around.” she grabs her bag and leaves, and sana feels the words close around her throat.

_ will i? _

the clack of momo’s heels against the marble floor hammers in the finality of the situation. she closes her eyes. files it together with the notion that true love does not exist -

she opens her eyes. the numbers on her wrist are still not moving.

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


it’s new year’s eve. it’s the best excuse for a party, and sana is all ready to get drunk and make out with momo. not that she doesn’t do it already. because that’s what college is all about, now that they’re more than halfway through the painful four-year journey to a piece of paper that will supposedly make the next forty years of her life easier. 

she grips momo’s hand tightly as they enter. it’s already bursting with people, and she accepts the beer pushed into her free hand. feels the music thumping in her veins, and takes a long swig. the buzz in the air is contagious, and already hyping her up, and she’s not even one percent drunk yet - 

“it’s huge!” momo yells into her ear. she’s already flushed because of the heat, and pressed up into sana because of the crowd, but sana is not complaining. sana cannot find it in herself to complain about anything else; because momo is right beside her, smiling like it’s the weekend, smiling like the first rays of sun, smiling like she didn’t just hand over her heart on a silver platter to sana, and sana knows nothing but sugary sweet happiness. 

they get pushed onto the dance floor. sana knows momo doesn’t mind, by the way her body starts moving automatically to the beat, in fluid waves that she can only dream of. but momo’s eyes are suddenly hooded, and her lips curve into the same damn smirk sana has seen way too many times, and the air between them gets hotter. the other girl moves even closer, pushing her hips right into sana’s playfully, and it sends a jolt of heat straight to her abdomen. 

she narrows her eyes. feels her competitiveness blaze through her and dry her throat, and gives back as hard as she gets. takes advantage of their still joined hands - places momo’s at the top of her thigh, and grinds down so the denim of her shorts barely chafes the other girl’s hand. the darkness in momo’s eyes stretches with an abyss that she wants to fall into, and it’s already a victory. because momo leans in to nibble at her neck, and she forces down the moan at the tip of her tongue. 

they dance. it gets sweaty and hot. she drapes her arm over momo’s body, hands still intertwined, and sana thinks euphoria cannot be compared to whatever that is running through her veins. life is but a meaningless road that can only be coloured with rainbows, and enough good sex that makes her ache for momo to lick her way down to her -

someone wolf whistles. it’s loud enough to hear, only because the song has changed to something less upbeat and it’s a wonder she didn’t notice. they pull apart, still holding hands. It’s been a good long while, but momo’s hand is still sana’s favourite thing to hold. not because they’re smaller than average, but because holding them is a soft and physical tethering she never gets tired of. it’s proof that it’s real, and she never wants to let go.

then momo says something about spotting mina somewhere in the living room, and sana nods. because parties aren’t fun without watching a usually calm mina lose her shit over alcohol, and the thought of it makes her chuckle lowly to herself. the room hasn’t started moving of its own accord, so sana maneuvers her way quickly through the crowd to the corner, with momo close behind. like always. 

“there!” 

true to popular belief, there’s mina, looking like she’s about to hurl, but at the same time also insanely sober and put together. it’s a thing sana still does not understand, but has learnt to recognise as one of the other girl’s party faces, and mina is  _ definitely  _ having a good time.

“sana! momo!” mina hollers. her usually quiet voice rings through. they push through the last of the crowd, and then there’s the few of them from the same dorm - dahyun, chaeyoung, and tzuyu. but sana’s eyes are quick to notice the newest addition. she’s tall, pretty, and the lipstick on her heart-shaped lips is glowing in the dark, and -

“this is nayeon,” chaeyoung beams. “she’s an old high school friend.” 

when nayeon smiles, it takes a few good seconds for sana and momo to return it. because they’re starstruck - it’s like the universe fades into white noise and all that matters is her attention at their fingertips. it roots sana’s feet to the ground, and she snaps out of it only when she remembers momo’s hand in hers. then moves to introduce herself, but momo is faster: she rushes forward, and envelops their new friend in a hug.

in the next two seconds, sana already misses her. but the frost crawling up her spine starts fading immediately when momo turns back to beam at her, and sana conveniently forgets about it.

(momo drops sana’s hand for the first time that night.)

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


she kisses jihyo first. 

it’s casual. no strings attached, or whatever seems to be the trend nowadays. they’re in her apartment, only because jihyo’s roommate has people over, and sana doesn’t really care. life is great, when there are other things in her mind that don't make her want to stab her eyes out. or re-analyse every single minute of the last five years to try and pinpoint the exact moment that shredded her heart into flimsy strands of salt-stained regret she wants to bury forever. 

jihyo's lips are different. they're more chapped, and have deeper lines. her cupid’s bow is more pronounced, and sana can’t help but think of the last time she’d kissed momo. it’s like trying out a new flavour of ice cream - something way more neutral than the last, but also light on her tongue and doesn’t make her crave the stronger taste she’s used to. 

they make out a little. with hesitant touches come new discoveries, and sana makes sure to remember all of them. like how jihyo always kisses to the right, or how jihyo gets really squirmy when sana bites down softly on her earlobe. it’s fire over a patch of wet grass - it burns slow, but flickers every now and then, and extinguishes eventually with a puff of smoke that lingers in her nose even after they’re done. a reminder of her reality.

the apartment is small. momo never minded. jihyo doesn’t, either, but sana notices the difference - jihyo, sprawled out on the couch, colours her living room in pastel hues. it makes her heart trot slowly along the edge of the risk she has learnt to avoid. but at the same time, there is a new door that has opened. right when everything else shut cruelly in her face. there is calamity amongst what she used to see - momo painting everything in her own shade of crimson. there are still traces of the other girl everywhere, and sana knows it’s only a matter of time before the red gets diluted by the rose-coloured goodness she will learn to live by. 

she puts on a movie after jihyo emerges from the shower, all fresh faced and pink cheeked. her netflix recommended has nothing but chick flicks, and -

“never pegged you for a chick flick whore,” jihyo raises an eyebrow. it’s challenging and slightly judgemental, but the fluffy pink bathrobe she’s wearing makes her look nothing like it, and sana defends herself with the truth.

“gross. it’s not me. she - “ the words get stuck in her throat. ends up hanging in the air between them, and sana finds her tongue paralysed, along with her gaze that can’t seem to leave jihyo’s. the other girl is patient. her eyes dance with the sparkly teasing that makes sana warm with affection, but when the silence stretches, jihyo catches on. it dissolves into soft understanding that solidifies into a support, and there is a warm hand on her shoulder.

“pick a movie you like. we’ll watch it.” jihyo grins. there are no expectations, no promises - there is only a willing heart, and open arms. it makes sana lean in for another chaste kiss that soothes the aches of unnecessary worry, and she picks a horror movie.

when jihyo ends up laughing at every single stupid jump-scare scene with her, sana’s chest blooms with something whole. 

  
  
  


/ 

  
  
  


“i got the internship!” sana screams, excitement bubbling up her throat. kicks the front door shut, and turns to the living room - momo is on the couch like always, smiling into the afternoon and sana all but jumps over, phone in hand with the acceptance email opened -

“no shoes in the house, sana!” momo’s holding out a disapproving hand. she is frowning, but the quirk in her lips tell sana she’s trying not to laugh. the message gets across either way, because momo really  _ hates  _ wearing shoes indoors, and sana doesn’t care. but she loves momo, and therefore she concedes - backtracks to the shoe rack, slips off her sneakers, and runs right back to momo to resume her squealing.

“look,” she shows momo the email. “i got the internship!” she grins again. knows that her smile is about to split her face in half, but this has been what she’s wanted for so long. she had spent all night preparing for a whole day of cutthroat interviews, and then she’d actually gotten in. it's like her overdue happiness coming in all at once, what with momo and her being soulmates and her life actually looking like it matters. 

she waits. waits for momo to finally be on the same page as her, like always, and when momo’s lips finally curve into a smile of her own, sana drops her phone on the couch and crushes momo in a hug. 

“oh my god,” she says right into sana’s ear. “i knew you would get it!” momo pulls the both of them up. starts spinning around, and sana doesn’t even have the capacity to care that she’s starting to feel a little dizzy. because she got the damn internship, and momo is here, right with her. right in her arms. everything is right. everything is good. “i’m so proud of you.” there are lips pressed on her forehead, like a stamp to remind herself of her worth, and momo’s love, and sana thinks she falls a little more. 

“thank you,” she murmurs into momo’s ear, when her feet finally touch the floor. they’re left in an embrace, still, and neither of them lets go. the air is a soft harmony of their breaths as it syncs with their heartbeats, and if sana had a choice, she would choose to listen to nothing but this for the rest of her life. with momo. because it sings all her insecurities to sleep, and weaves a veil over just the two of them - 

they stay there like that. she is content. she is happy. 

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


false realities are very, very convincing. or, sana’s already knee deep into the soulmates bullshit and she’s swept all her previous doubts under the carpet. she doesn’t complain, not when she already has momo by her side. her soulmate. the one she’s bound to for all time. the one she  _ loves _ .

timers? yeah, they aren’t that bad.

so when momo brings it up, sana frowns. raises an eyebrow skeptically, and tilts her head. “what?” 

“it’s new,” momo points to her phone screen. because timers are still the talk of the town despite having been around for a good year, and the media is always,  _ always  _ reporting every single shit about it. to the extent of monitoring the status of celebrities who have gotten it, and speculating who their soulmates are - basically the same brainless gossip vultures feed on. “like, how is this possible?”

sana skims the article. feels something beneath her skin prickling slightly. it’s a little uncomfortable, and very much foreign, but she brushes it off - it’s probably just the stale coffee she drank earlier. spares a look at the mug beside her, and squints at the offending remainders -

“are you even reading it?” momo huffs. moves her phone away, but this time, sana’s faster - not always, though - and stops her by catching her wrist. brings it to her lips and kisses it loudly, until the sound resonates in her chest, until it caresses the shell of momo’s ear, until it eases away the pout on momo’s face. she pokes at the other girl’s cheek experimentally, and when momo preens, leans in for a quick kiss -

“yes, your majesty,” sana giggles, lips still at the corner of momo’s. because momo’s pout is sana’s own brand of kryptonite, and she can never say no. it’s not like she wants to, anyway, because her heart is literally trembling at the adorableness of it all, and on days like this sana thinks it might just implode in her chest. it is a shot of espresso straight into her veins, when momo smiles bright and sated, and sana knows this is heaven.

she reads the article again. properly, this time. okay. so there’s this dude whose timer supposedly reset, and had another countdown. even after meeting his soulmate, and her timer is still at zero, even after his restarted. 

“oh,” the doubt is there, clear as day, but sana doesn’t know what else to do. finds the beginnings of a storm in momo’s eyes, amidst the brightness, and feels the prickling beneath her skin return. returns the phone to momo. “i mean, it’s just one case, right?” she shrugs. “doesn’t really mean anything. it could be some sort of… fluke, or something.” 

momo is quiet. her mouth is set, and sana knows she is worried - it doesn’t take much to challenge the solid foundations of momo’s beliefs; sana will not pass judgement. they have long settled on a mutual respect of sorts, amidst sana’s initial distrust - but now? the reassurance that leaves her lips no longer stems from a forced background, and it surprises her how easily it comes out, since she’s actually started believing in them. only because she’s benefited, of course - they are sincere and genuine.

so she takes momo’s other hand. pulls the other girl in for a hug, because it’s sunday and they have nothing better to do. offers momo her shoulder, because she is willing to carry any burden of momo’s, no matter how heavy and how painful. they’re soulmates, after all, the other half of each other - they are one, and there is nothing to hide. everything is shared in the way that is supposed to make them whole. 

“stop worrying.” sana kisses her hair. finds momo’s hands and folds them together with hers. her chest is fuzzy and warm and rattles slightly. “because what’s meant to be will be,” she whispers. it’s not a lie. they fall into a silence, and all sana is able to do is lend the lull of her own heartbeat, in hopes that it will settle the dust circling momo’s gut - maybe the prickling under her skin is some form of baseless, contagious nerves trying to stir up useless problems - like the blackened ball of unsorted questions sana swept under her carpet that’s meant to stay there untouched, forever, until they disintegrate completely and leave no traces inside of her.

she pulls away after a while, to look at momo - the other girl is still quiet, but has relaxed considerably. she thumbs absentminded lines of gratitude over sana’s wrists, right where her timer is. but there is still something in her eyes sana doesn’t know where to place -

it’s a waver. it makes her stomach sink right to the bottom and she really, really regrets drinking stale coffee because she might actually throw up. 

three seconds is more than enough for sana to realise that she never wants to see it again. never. her stomach squeezes.

momo looks away first. sana closes her eyes, and hopes that the afternoon drowsiness will wash it away.

(it doesn’t.)

  
  
  
  


/

  
  
  


the breaking point is this: 

sana is drunk. they haven’t had a proper conversation in weeks, because sana is the queen of deflecting, and momo is tired of trying. the stress snowballs into something ugly brewing inside her, and she tries to drink it away, like any other college student - it backfires splendidly.

“momo?” she croaks, maybe a little too loudly. it’s night, somewhere between when her six pm class ended, and well. the sun has long gone, so of course it’s dark. but the apartment is quiet and momo is probably asleep because they’re strangers now, and it’s really, really convenient to just go back to being two people sharing an apartment. 

her shoes are stuck on her feet. she kicks them off, but one of them is still there. the shoelace knot is a rubik’s cube she doesn’t have enough brain cells for right now, because the alcohol does not allow for it - so she decides to forego it because the living room has started to spin.

_ talk to momo,  _ she reminds herself.  _ talk to momo. talk to momo. talk to momo -  _

the light in momo’s bedroom is still on. it’s not surprising, because momo always forgets to turn off her lights, and ends up sleeping even with them on. sana reaches out for the switch by instinct, like she has done almost every night before momo had unofficially moved into her room, and forgets the one thought that has occupied her mind throughout the entire cab ride home -

momo is curled up, facing the window. she’s the tinier one, always, and sana’s hand drops back down to her side. the yellow light of the room makes momo look even warmer and softer, and sana feels the pain of unfairness shoot through her like an icicle - because this, right here,  _ is _ supposed to be her happy ending. this was her happy ending, and to have it dangle right in front of her fingers, just out of reach of her grasp is an acidic anger that roars through her veins. 

but then it fades, just as quickly as it had appeared, into the layer of platelets coagulating around the open wound. healing is a torturous process when the source of her pain sleeps in the next room and still leaves stupid post-its on the refrigerator whenever she knows she’ll be staying out late. it’s only ripping open old wounds again and again, and sometimes sana doesn’t know whether she’ll be better off if she just leaves it to bleed. because at least she would have more time to savour the magic underneath her fingertips, and maybe dig them deeper into the beads of time.

“i’m sorry,” she says. lays it all out there, in the space between the wall and the bed. the numbers on momo’s wrist are still undeniably black and different, and sana can only trudge on. lets the jagged edges of her thoughts saw into her, because there are things they cannot control. it doesn’t help that the alcohol only serves to sharpen them, and render her unhinged -

“i’m sorry,” she repeats. a little louder this time, to no one in particular, because momo is obviously asleep and she can’t really bring herself to wake the other girl up just to  _ talk -  _

“i’m sorry i’m not good enough for you.” the words rip through her lips. it’s the conclusion she’s reached after many, many sleepless nights, and she doesn’t want to believe it. but it is all she has right now, and it hurts to even admit it - even with the room bending at the edges, and her heart wrenched out of her chest and left to dry. 

she blinks. there are soft, gentle hands framing her face now, and momo is looking at her like she’s going to break. her hair is sleep mussed, but her eyes overflow with every colour of emotion sana recognises, and she finds herself holding her breath. 

“no,” momo whispers. shakes her head resolutely. thumbs a stray tear away, and this is when sana realises she’s crying. “this isn’t your fault.” 

there is a hand running through her hair, and sana’s eyelids flutter shut. because this is the surefire way to calm her down, and of course momo knows it, because momo knows  _ everything  _ -

there are lips on her own. slow, and everything that sana has dreamed of. dreams of, still, in the cold, empty bed she is incapable of warming alone. it’s the fairytale ending she thinks she deserves, when all the stars align and everything is right. it’s the home that she had already built and ingrained into every cell of her body, that her still-beating heart yearns for no matter what happens. it’s her breathing again after trying to learn how to stop - the muscles in her lungs cry out with relief, and the rush of air is so delicious sana can’t help but kiss back.

_ this isn’t your fault. _

it’s been a while, but it’s still the same. momo still blazes through her paper skin, and the other girl’s fingers scratch the same lines down sana’s abdomen as her shirt gets pulled off slowly - like unwrapping a present re-wrapped many times; because it’s too precious, and the adrenaline rush of seeing it (for the first time) always makes her heady. it’s not much of a surprise, although there are still times when new things are noticed - but not tonight. tonight is old and familiar and blankets sana in a nostalgia she wants to suffocate in. because momo smells like peaches, like she always does, and sana breathes in deep. catalogues it in the vial of things she knows are not meant for her, and grits her teeth at the injustice.

_ this isn’t your fault.  _

momo sucks apology after apology into her neck, and sana falls apart. clings onto the other girl’s broad shoulders desperately, as she feels fingers sliding up her shorts. they are lithe and long and make her come faster than she intends to, because momo owns her, mind and body, and this is what it feels like to love someone with all of your being. 

she moans. her eyes are transfixed on momo, like they always have been. because momo is kind and gracious and always makes sure to leave a blanket on the couch for her late night musings. she is everything good in the world, and sana thinks maybe she should have seen this coming; the ugly stepsister was never destined for the prince, simply because her foot didn’t fit into the glass slipper. she was never destined for momo, simply because her heart never fit into momo’s, and maybe it held on to things that momo didn’t. if it was meant to be, then she wouldn’t have to try so hard to make things work. 

it’s not meant to be.

momo’s hands blur. the coiling in sana’s abdomen spreads all the way to her fingertips, and she moves her hips frantically. breathes out momo’s name again and again, because she’s so close, and she could never really stop saying it. doesn’t want to, because why else would it roll off her tongue so naturally? 

“it’s not your fault, sana.” momo says it again right above her lips, curling her fingers the way sana loves, and sana lets herself believe it. that they are merely pawns in the grand scheme of fate - unfortunate collateral damage. she comes again, legs clamping down around momo. her vision is white and static and it doesn’t matter, because momo is here. momo is  _ here _ -

“please,” sana forces open her eyes, amidst the threads of sleep creeping up on her eyelids. watches as momo pulls out her fingers. they glisten in the warm light, like the silvery hope she could never let go of, even now. places the remaining ones she’d saved up for rainy days like now, and catches momo’s hand. “don’t be in love with someone else.” 

momo doesn’t move. stares at sana’s expectant desperation, and pulls her hand away - only to find sana’s. presses it against her lips. it feels like a stamp in wax, to seal a letter she had poured her entire heart out in. there is finality and a hint of closure, and sana feels her heart break all over again.

she takes a shaky breath. her eyes flicker to the numbers on momo’s wrist - they’re moving. the countdown has started, and it seems like momo already knew about it, given the brief flash of acknowledgement she finds in the other girl’s eyes. 

“please,” sana tries again. “don’t have someone waiting on you.” she bites down on her bottom lip harshly. locks her sobs in. this was the only possible outcome ever since she’d found out that momo’s numbers changed, but seeing it manifest right in front of her eyes brings a whole new wave of hurt that rises above her willpower, and she crumbles.

momo says nothing. lets go of her hand. stands up slowly, and tucks her into bed. sana is an unfeeling shell of broken dreams, but it’s impossible to miss how momo moves across the bed just to untie the one shoe she could never. because  _ no shoes in the house, sana!  _ and some things never change, even when others do. 

there is a tender kiss on her lips, before momo pulls the blanket up around her shoulders. rearranges her like the delicate flower she was before science plucked her away, and leans in to rest her forehead on sana’s -

“goodnight, sana.”

the last she remembers is momo’s eyes glittering with the reflection of the shards of her broken heart, and sana lets the weight of it drag her down into a slumber she never wants to wake up from.

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


the next day, she wakes up to an empty apartment, like always. she gets up, like always. she walks to the kitchen, like always -

there isn’t a post-it left on the refrigerator. the clean metallic surface mocks her for her naivety, and sana can only swallow the stinging shame that fills her throat as a result of her desperation.

it fucking hurts.

(she wants to choke on it.)

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


everything turns bleak after the revelation.

colours are no longer bright. they are muted and forced into her vision, just like momo’s regard for her. this is foreign territory filled with landmines and sana has no idea how to navigate around it, without risking a limb. or in this case, momo. days are boring and empty and all she thinks about are the new numbers on momo’s wrist. 

it cannot be. because science has always proven to be reliable, and backed up by years of empirical data. but it was poorly concealed devastation in momo’s eyes that sana saw, when she’d thumbed across it not long after the new year’s eve party. because momo’s been wearing long sleeves that were clearly unnecessary with the heating, and sana? sana wants to say she saw it coming. 

today she finds momo sitting at the kitchen island, fingers clacking away at her laptop. it’s the weekend before exam week, which is, coincidentally, another good excuse to avoid each other. sana works on her own essay on the couch, with the tv turned on for white noise that spares her the pain of a pin-drop silence. 

throwing herself into studying doesn’t really work as well as she thought it would, not when she still has half of the textbook to go, and not when her eyes are still programmed to find momo whenever they can. from the couch, she has a clear view of the other girl chewing her lips in concentration - a classic picturesque view that still makes her heart beat in the rhythm she can easily tap along to. the one that she has long memorised. the one that she knows she has to forget. eventually.

momo has her hair up in a messy bun, held up by nothing but a chewed up pencil. it’s homey and endearing and sana hates how private this moment is. hates how personal it is. hates how her stomach turns at the thought of someone else other than her being able to see momo like this. her only saving grace is the afternoon sun basking momo in its glory, melting the hard edges of denial and fear, and filling up the pockets of time with permanency.

sana puts her textbook down. reaches for her phone blindly, because she still cannot look away, and snaps a photo. moves it into her favourite album - together with many, many other pictures of momo, and stares at it. it is a wisp of a thread hanging right in front of her, golden and glorious, immortalised - that is all the universe has left for her, and her disbelieving soul.

(this is what she gets for not believing in fate. but the one time she does, it slaps her right in the face.) 

as if telepathic, momo looks up. meets her eyes with an awkward curiosity, and smiles. it’s small, but the corners of her own lips turn up automatically like always. a built-in reflex, by now. they haven’t really talked since, with momo’s hasty exit after a  _ i’m sorry, i don’t know what’s happening _ and that was that. because you can’t really avoid each other forever, especially when you’re living in the same damn apartment, and falling back into simple coexistence purely because of finals is acceptable, contrary to popular belief. it’s either a silent mutual agreement to not talk about this forever, or to only talk about it after exams - either way, sana is thankful for the extra time to sort herself out.

but then she blinks. the light is now a sepia prison of the past, and her lungs go rigid. the clacking of keys resume as momo’s attention is back on her screen. sana feels her heart cave at the prospect of it being realised, and wills her eyes away, back to her textbook -

momo is beautiful. past, or present, it does not matter, because sana already knows that she is prepared to fight tooth and nail to keep all versions of momo alive. the one she knew. the one she knows, and the one she will know - the most difficult one, because she’ll be in love with someone else - because momo is worth it. 

momo is beautiful. she’s not wearing any make-up, and if sana squints just a little she knows she can see the tiny mole right at the corner of momo’s nose bridge. the one she always covers up because she thinks it’s ugly. sana doesn’t think she has the right to tell her otherwise anymore, not when their beliefs are once again misaligned in a tragic twist of fate. she bites down on her teeth. locks her jaw, so the words don’t slip out, because god knows they’ve argued over this a thousand times before. this time, sana is content to bear the pain, and wait it out - because momo is worth it.

momo is beautiful. sana doesn’t have her anymore. 

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


“does it hurt?” sana asks for the nth time. takes a deep breath. digs her fingers into the armrests as she tries to keep calm -

there is a hand in hers. momo laces their fingers together, and squeezes tightly. from her half-lying position, she can’t see momo’s other wrist, but it’s there. the timer. they had promised to look at it together, when they’re out of the clinic, with a dramatic pinky swear and all, but sana is too desperate for something to distract herself with other than the thought of a fucking needle piercing her skin.

“it’s going to be quick,” the doctor doesn’t lie. professionalism - or apathy - keeps him focused as he tears the alcohol swab robotically. 

“it doesn’t hurt.” momo bends down so they’re eye-level. her brown eyes are a swirl of reassurance that calms the tsunami in her own, and sana breathes again. it’s obviously a lie, but momo’s presence is more than enough for her anxious self to latch onto and find the courage to stop squirming in the damn chair -

there is a sharp pain in her wrist. she closes her eyes, and holds her breath, focusing on nothing but momo’s thumb drawing soothing circles on her other hand. there are words, she realises, that momo is tracing on her skin, but she’s too frazzled to figure it out -

“it’s done,” the doctor monotones. does some final checks after poking around her wrist, and sana’s heart is still about to knock itself out of her chest (although not as violently as ten seconds ago, she reckons). she doesn’t look, yet. gets enough of herself together to roll down her sleeve, and with momo’s help, stands on her shaky legs.

this is it. she has it now. the one thing she never thought she would - there’s no turning back. it’s an add-on in life that’s supposed to guarantee eternal happiness and love, and there aren’t any rules that make it mandatory to actually  _ talk  _ to said soulmate: all you have to do is meet them, even if you don't like them.

okay. that she can do. and will definitely be doing, judging by the excitement on momo’s face that hasn’t left since they, well, left the clinic. the skips in the other girl’s steps quiet her own anxiety, enough for sana to start thinking again and be rational. it’s enough for her to notice the familiar warmth squeezing her chest, whenever momo’s arm brushes against hers - her lungs are suddenly inflated with cotton candy and she doesn’t breathe properly -

this sucks. this is definitely not that one four letter word that starts with - 

well. the fear that rains on her parade is enough to make sana realise that she might have potentially made a huge, huge ass mistake, because for one: she has a timer. on her wrist. she conformed, just because she’s too whipped for momo, and two: what if,  _ what if,  _ momo’s soulmate isn’t her?

“are you ready?” momo’s voice vibrates in excitement, but there is a poorly masked nervousness that sana doesn’t understand. they’re literally in the middle of nowhere, one block down from the clinic nearest to their apartment, and sana feels something like courage surge through her veins right to her fingertips, as momo’s eyes hold hers. they are staunch, they are steadfast, and they hold a million promises, possibilities - all which sana commits herself to. 

she nods. closes her fingers around the edges of her sleeve. counts in tandem with the beat of her heart thudding in her ears:

one, two,  _ three - _

her numbers stare back at her, unchanging. she chances a look at momo, only to find matching numbers reflected on her own wrist. the other girl is wide-eyed, disbelieving, and sana’s lips stretch into a grin so big she doesn’t care if it breaks her face.

“hi,” she whispers. it’s no longer a secret. the wind carries it to momo, surely, because momo  _ blushes _ and looks away. there are butterflies in sana’s stomach - momo is adorable and sana wants to hold her hand. wants to kiss her flushing cheeks. wants to tell her she looks beautiful like this, shy and bashful - but there is no rush. they have eternity, they have forever, because they are only each others, and there is no one else -

momo steps forward first. closes the distance between them as her fingers find sana’s, and sana fights her own blush from spreading across her face. she lifts their intertwined hands, still a little afraid of the illusion, but momo squeezes hard enough to erase all her doubts, and this,  _ this  _ is when the magic crystallises into something solid. something tangible.

(it’s momo.) 

“hi,” the other girl whispers right back at her lips, and sana kisses her. 

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


it happens when sana least expects it to, when she’s already way past the point of acceptance - because old wounds are still capable of ripping themselves open, even though they have long scabbed and healed to a certain degree. jihyo has seen her through most of it; the white thread that found the gaping hole in her chest and sewed it up seamlessly, and on most days sana forgets the pain.

there’s no particular trigger, she supposes. just the inevitable insomnia that comes with sleeping way too much over the weekends, and the dark of the night employing the worst kind of coercion into forcing her to think. dipping her hands into the memories that are muddied with time, and looking through them with pointless yearning.

it’s not like she’s lonely, or anything of that sort. she’s happy. she’s no longer suffering, after finding someone whose beliefs actually align with her own. they are walking on the same road, albeit the lesser one, but the hand in hers is warm and steady and doesn’t let go.

jihyo is sound asleep, of course - curled up on the other side of the bed because the weather’s been too hot to cuddle, and sana? sana is lying in regret. she feels the self-pity seep out slowly, then all at once, and suddenly her eyes hurt and her vision blurs slightly and she thinks of momo.

she thumbs the skin patch. it’s smooth, because of some nanoparticle technology that supposedly blends in with your skin and makes it look like an almost never. as if the timer was never there. but there are edges and bumps that give it away, and sana thinks about the almost theres of it all. 

her thoughts get louder - the mildly coordinated orchestra that crescendos without direction. she reaches for her phone. wants to search for stupid things to laugh at on twitter, to think about something else. to squash the ugly fear that seems to be taking precedence at the forefront of her mind, that already has its foot at the door she thought she locked - but the night offers its enticing pockets of tranquility, so deep, with no strings attached, and she takes it. 

her fingers find her photo albums. scrolls down to the particular one she swore to never open again. hovers over the album cover - 

she clicks on it. everything hits her at the same time: freshman year momo, when she had blonde hair. momo a few months later, with brown hair - because her bleached ends were horrifyingly dead. sophomore year momo, when they’d gotten their timers. their first kiss, in the middle of nowhere. momo eating. momo cooking. momo sleeping, on this very same bed, on the same side as jihyo -

sana blinks. the red that bleeds out from the open wound is staining everything in her apartment again. it’s a little too late now to pull the brakes, not when she’s already started to lay everything out in the open: raw, and rotting, and there is only one way forward.

she clicks on the last photo saved. the one of momo sitting at the kitchen island. the one right outside this room, in this same apartment - because it was in such a central location she couldn’t bear to give it up. she stares at it. wills it to life, and remembers the orange halo on momo’s head. the wistful jealousy comes back, but ten times harder, and the bitterness is sour on the back of her tongue - 

because she doesn’t have momo. not anymore. 

this is it. the fear she kept at bay tearing its way out, completely, and sinking its ugly claws into her eyes. because all she can see is red, red,  _ red _ -

it’s a sight. sana takes in everything, again, with the rose-coloured glasses she realises she’s missed. the sheer intensity and boldness of it all hits her right in the stomach. and it fucking  _ hurts _ , because she’s left with the one question that should have stayed below the stupid carpet forever -

_ what if jihyo’s not enough? _

maybe the apartment looks better in red. maybe her fingers looked better stained red. maybe she prefers red, and all its fiery passion - moderate slow burns keep her warm, but they aren’t enough to make her  _ feel _ , and maybe she just wants to bathe in the flames. to be set on fire. to wait for the redness to fill her heart and its deepest crevices - like it once did, like how the pastel could never, because pastel is boring and plain and bland -

jihyo stirs. sana stills. an arm drapes over her waist, and for the first time - it is alien, foreign, and makes sana want to crawl out of her skin. the claws in her eyes press a little harder, and there are tears leaking out - each drop on her cheek a reminder of the difference that is repulsing.

she puts her phone down. closes her eyes. waits for jihyo’s breathing to even out. clenches her fist at the disgust that clamps down on her throat with every second that passes. forces down the bile that rises, and takes a deep breath - because it’s not momo, and it will never be. no matter how much she wills time to stop, or go back to how it was before -

the claws retract. the disgust is still there, but more so at herself, because there is a really sweet, patient, and caring girl on the other side of her bed, and all she can think of is someone who has already slipped through her fingers. this is the lowest of low, and maybe, maybe this is why she doesn’t deserve good things. maybe this is why they weren’t meant to be, because she is rotten inside, and nothing in her can live up to the goodness in momo.

she opens her eyes. the walls are still red.

well. red will always be momo’s colour, anyway.

(she doesn’t sleep a wink that night.)

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


the skin patches get released.

sana orders one immediately. it’s a literal cover up solution provided by the same group of scientists, ever since the number of people with a timer that had more than one countdown skyrocketed (some three, and more) and statistics were too significant to ignore.

it’s what they owed the people, she thinks. a well-deserved fresh start. some supposed nanoparticle technology that’s supposed to make it look like it was never there. to help to forget something so permanently wrong. like it never happened. out of sight, out of mind.

it arrives within the next few days, packaged neatly in a nondescript box together with all her online shopping haul. but it’s the only parcel that doesn’t have a return address, and she picks it up immediately. tears it open. reads the almost fool-proof instructions to stick it on, and does it with no hesitation - because she will not look back any longer. there is nothing but pieces of her memories lying on the road she turned away from. they still glitter majestically under the sun like cracked porcelain, but she knows by now that it’s definitely not worth going back for. because she has something to look forward to now, when jihyo returns and they order takeout and watch movies and cuddle and make out. 

the road ahead is a cushy pastel one that sana embraces wholeheartedly. it makes her alive in a different way, and there are no more tears - she thinks she’s already cried them all out. she will treasure this; her second chance at eternal happiness, with intricate webs of care and concern that paralyses her willingly. indefinitely. with secrets whispered into her hair every night, and dreams written into her skin. the dreams they’re building together, from scratch. 

it looks good. isn’t really obvious from a distance, she thinks, because they don’t really show up in the mirror - the uneven bumps show only upon close scrutiny, and even so sana doesn’t care. because it feels like closure. no more physical reminders of the what ifs. it’s like she’s in a new skin - no blemishes, no scars, nothing but an empty white canvas to start anew, and it is liberating. 

jihyo seems to think so, too, in the way her eyes light up with surprise, and then, not even a second later, explode into this white supernova that sucks all the air out from sana’s lungs. roots her to the carpet, and something underneath her ribs  _ shifts _ . because jihyo is looking at her like she put the stars in the sky, and it is as intoxicating as it is beautiful - she surrenders to the hands that frame her face gently, the lips that imprint the permanence she will now have, and the fingers that sign the invisible contract she will live upon. 

the vulnerability is different, now that she is no longer fully ashamed of her past. jihyo never minded, but it is only now that sana doesn’t. they are finally equal, with no more silly notions of predestined love or a love once had that crushed her very beliefs. when she comes, she makes sure to look jihyo in the eye, to show her all of herself - the pink skin from her freshly released shackles, her heaving chest from breathing without the weight of her mistakes, her trembling lips from the absence of the wrong words - and all she sees in jihyo’s is the reflection of her own. 

“do you miss the old days?” jihyo asks, after, when they’re curled up against each other, legs tangled and still panting. it’s not loaded - it’s never loaded with jihyo, and sana doesn’t feel the usual pang of guilt twisting her intestines around this time. there are fingers playing idly with her own, and sana breathes in deep. feels the air reach the narrowest parts of her lungs, and holds it there -

there is peace.

“no,” she says. smiles, when she catches jihyo sneaking a glance at her. jihyo is the pastel pink embodiment of the purest form of love: an eternal lover whose trust is always unquestioned and unwavering, who always puts others first, who is always waiting, and watching, and giving - 

“not anymore,” she continues, grinning. takes jihyo’s hand in hers, and kisses it soundly, like what momo used to do. the giggle that jihyo lets out puts her chest on a familiar slow burn, all the way to her toes, warming her uncertainty indefinitely.

sana doesn’t deserve jihyo. but she has her, she thinks, and maybe that’s enough for now.

  
  
  


/

  
  
  


things continue, in the best way possible, because time’s arrow neither stands still nor reverses. it merely marches forward, and sana would be a complete idiot if she were still holding on to her moldy memories, despite knowing how good they were. but the heart, she learns, heals in phases, and she’s long stopped fighting the sudden nostalgia that clogs up her throat. 

jihyo is everything - the sunset across the horizon, the tides of the sea, the morning coffees - sana takes it all in. breathes pastel happiness, together with rainbows and butterflies and cotton candy laughter. it settles at the bottom of her stomach, the way her life goes on without a hitch for the next year or so, and maybe, maybe she’s finally deserved her happy ending.

maybe it’s fate punishing her for trying to forget, or for being complacent for far too long - today she learns the hard way that the past will never just be the past, and will never leave her alone. 

“momo?” she stares, disbelieving. rubs her sleep out of her eyes before looking back at the girl standing in front of her door - it is momo, in the flesh, at her doorstep, at two in the morning. she swallows the insults readied for the supposed lunatic who wouldn’t stop ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night - jihyo’s out of town and sana always gets a little antsy when alone - and tries to regain her bearings for someone forcibly torn out of slumber. “what are you doing here?” 

momo smiles. it does not reach her eyes. the corridor lighting is dim, but enough for sana to know that something is wrong. the hairs on her arm stand at attention, and she invites momo in - but the other girl doesn’t budge. sana wants to think that there’s some kind of invisible forcefield keeping the other girl out. a barrier shielding her from the slippery descent into history, but it doesn’t matter either way because she’s already well on her way to wallow in self-pity ever since she opened her door.

“i’m sorry,” momo croaks. “i never should have left.”

there is silence. this is it. the apology sana dreamed of every night, and every waking moment back then - so vivid she could practically taste it on the tip of her tongue, see it through her eyelids, and recite every word momo would say when she eventually comes back begging for forgiveness -

sana doesn’t breathe. doesn’t move. her lungs freeze, together with her heart, and she waits. feels the pastel fortress she’s surrounded herself in start to crumble, with the winds of the romanticised has beens cutting into her with no mercy. 

“it’s stupid, i know.” momo’s voice trembles. momo’s voice never trembles - even during big presentations, and important meetings, even during their breakup -

“please, sana.” there are cracks in the other girl’s eyes that translate into a piece of her own heart chipping away, and she clenches her fist. holds steady in her determination to wait this out, because she will not succumb to the devil taking her memories hostage, despite the tremble in momo’s lips and the tears trickling down her cheeks. wants to call her bluff -

“it’s always been you.” 

momo plays her last card. there is no bluff - it’s a show hand, and that’s all it takes for sana’s vision to, once again, explode with red. the rock solid walls she spent years building brick by brick dissolve as quickly as cotton candy in water, and she’s back to square one - the naive idealist who believed in a perfect world.

maybe she never really left. 

she steps forward. cradles momo’s face. thumbs her tears away. her skin is the same shade of ivory that sana remembers, darkened by the shadows of regret, and momo is still beautiful - of course time has been lenient to her, when she always strives to see the best in everyone, and be the best version of herself every single day.

there are familiar fingers around her wrist. soft and searing. pressing her buttons just right, and sana lets go. relaxes her fingers. gives in, because it’s become too exhausting to hold on to something that’s already slipping away, and to pretend that this isn’t what she still wants. 

the pastel is easily overshadowed and forgotten. “this isn’t your fault,” she says. echoes the words once said to her, and waits for the tides in momo’s eyes to recede. tells momo it’s okay, because she understands: beliefs are what make a person, and momo wouldn’t be the same person if she wasn’t this persistent in her faith. sana wouldn’t love her the same, and they wouldn’t have had what they had. and if she could do it all over again? she would. 

because momo is worth it.

the air is quiet. her heart beats in her ears, and momo is close enough to hear it. but she doesn’t care, not when momo grins like a cheshire cat and brings her wrist up.

“look,” she breathes. shows her timer. the numbers are at zero, again, and sana tilts her head questioningly. it’s weird, to be staring at something she’s sworn to never look at again, only because momo’s the one telling her to, and it’s like looking at an old friend who stabbed her in the back. whom she once trusted. who still worms the whispers of soulmates right into the rotting wound in her chest, and would probably be content watching her writhe in pain. 

but in momo’s eyes is a secret, and sana stares hard. tries to decipher the crypticness of it all, to find out what she’s missing. knows that momo wants to tell her something, from the twinkle in her eyes she has missed, obvious even from the slight crying -

“just yesterday it was at twenty-four.” 

she blinks. it is a truth that shatters her earth and slithers its way into the very essence of her being - waiting for her brain to play catch-up. pulls up a memory that she didn’t think much of: her, bumping into momo at the local supermarket yesterday. sana knows momo still lives in the same neighbourhood, only because they still see each other occasionally at the mall - it’s affordable, and reasonably close to the city center, and she’s definitely not stupid enough to move away just because of that.

the skin patch on her wrist itches. she looks at it through her rose-colored glasses - it sticks out horribly like a sore thumb. it’s a weird, dark beige slab of something that ruins the continuity of her arm. maybe it was a mistake, trying to cover up her timer. because scars should be worn proudly, to remind herself of what she’s been through to be who she is today.

and this: an opportunity to reset it all, to forget the heartbreak and the tears and the paralysing fear of not  _ living? _

it’s ugly. her fingers trace the edges that never really stuck to her skin - a testament to it trying too hard to do its job. because it never really belonged there in the first place. 

she finds momo’s eyes. they shine with the ferocity of molten gold, holding her hostage. it’s breathtaking, and it gives her the courage to nod. holds them with her own certainty this time -

her fingers tighten, and she rips it off.

  
  


/

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> @xylomyloo on twitter and cc hehe


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